


Breakthru

by queen_kumquat



Series: Hammer to Fall trilogy [3]
Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Underage, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12146520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_kumquat/pseuds/queen_kumquat
Summary: Sequel to Hammer to Fall and I want to Break Free, completing the story.Peter and Patrick meet up for one last day before the end of their holidays. There's sex, another embarrassing encounter with the chemist, and what would have to be called BDSM if it happened to be safe, sane, and consensual. Between these two? One out of three would be an achievement.And theological debate and lots of 80s music references.





	1. Chapter 1

It occurred to Patrick that the day before Marlows returned to school was always full of errands and demands from their mother, so, if he were to meet Peter again, it would have to be tomorrow. Which meant using the telephone; _horrible_ device making him anxious at the thought. However, knowing that his mother might return any moment, he summoned the courage to call Trennels the minute the radio pips confirmed it was definitely 6pm.  
  
"Colebridge 32357, Ann speaking."  
"Oh Ann! It's Patrick Merrick. Is Peter there? Just wanted to know if he could come over tomorrow and...return my music tapes?" It was the best excuse he could think of for why Peter might need to be the one who came over. His pious brain added ' _told a deliberate lie_ ' to his list of sins for confession, and the wicked part of him shoved it onto the list which Father O'Sullivan didn't need to know about. An increasingly long list.  
  
"I'll pass on the message and get him to call you back." Ever efficient, Ann hung up. Patrick tried not to twiddle his thumbs and to embark on his own optional holiday essay.  
  
Half an hour later, essay outline scrawled in three colours, he was interrupted by the telephone and leapt to it before his mother, coming through the door, could reach the receiver. "Wotcha," came Peter's cheerful voice. "I don't have any of your music, do I? Don't worry, no-one's listening, _wonder_ of wonders. Could come over though. If you wanted to... " He hesitated over the word, settled on "practise more?"   
  


Patrick chuckled, nervously. "Um, yeah, once more would be great. Yes." He noticed his mother hovering nearby, covered the mouthpiece and hissed, " _Peter Marlow_ " at her. "Sorry, yeah, see you tomorrow, and some new music would be grand. Bye then."  
  
Mrs Merrick nodded approvingly at her son's having actually made some social plans for once, rather than simply allowing that Nicola one to come running after him, and acknowledging his succinct use of the phone in required fashion. At least it wasn't long distance - he had winced, hugely, at how much Ginty must have had to pay for all those calls the previous year, having had the costs of British Telecom brought home to him by his exasperated father during the aftermath, as he was driven to interviews at various crammers. He'd immediately insisted on going halves, but his father's explanatory response - that that would only be possible if Merrick senior paid Merrick junior _far_ more pocket money than Merrick junior merited, but not to worry, he'd done so on Patrick’s behalf already - had only served to make Patrick feel even more thoroughly shabby about the whole thing.  
  
Patrick was absent-minded during dinner; his annoyed mother gave up trying to explain her newest Committee to him, but he did grasp that she would be out all day, possibly having dinner in London with his father, and he tried to ensure his face stayed appropriately uninterested rather than gleeful.  
  
He treated himself to a luxurious hot bath, finished one of his new paperbacks, and wondered what Peter might be up for the next day; what he himself might even _want_. Would three times be the start of a tradition? Would he want that? He decided that this holiday was an oasis in the desert of his sex life, and probably not to be ever repeated - which meant seizing every opportunity the next day. Which in turn meant an early night, and, amazingly, he fell asleep easily.  
  
The next day his stomach was tightly balled during breakfast, but he forced down two eggs and toast so as to avoid comment. He waved his mother off, confirmed he was _quite_ capable of transferring lunch from the kitchen into himself, and wondered what to do now he had Meriot Chase all to himself for once. He faced a sudden urge to strip naked and run through all the corridors ululating, which he was still considering when Peter coughed and emerged from the kitchen, wet in an anorak against rain that was getting more torrential by the minute. No hay barn today.  
  
"Hope you don't mind. There was no answer and the back door was open."

Patrick sagged in sudden relief. He hadn't been stood up. "No problem. I've sorted the hawks for the morning, thankfully, so the world's our oyster."

"Er...right. I, um, brought some music for you. Um, seeing as I ought to have an excuse for coming over." For once, Peter's social confidence wasn't in evidence, and for some unpraiseworthy reason this made Patrick happy.  
  
"Let's go upstairs and have a listen, then. What did you bring?"

"Bunch of stuff. Stones. The Cure. Floyd. Spandau Ballet."

Patrick made an approving noise as they entered his room. "Come in, pass us the Cure one." He shut the door and put the cassette in his player. A couple lads at school had the new Walkmans, which he envied, but today there was nothing stopping him playing Robert Smith at top volume. They sat down on the single bed, humming along to songs they'd heard on the radio, paying attention to the album-only tracks. A breathy number reminded them both of their vague ideas for the day and shyly they made eye contact, raised single eyebrows quizzically, made the tiniest of simultaneous nods, and moved closer together. One thigh over Patrick's, Peter said, “Shame about the weather. No shot at proper privacy." The Merrick parents might be away but a cook, char or some farm workers could be downstairs at any time.

Patrick looked at him oddly. "No? It's _such_ a shame I don't live in an ancient stately home, then, full of secret passages and priest’s holes, for comfortable hiding in, isn't it? And so _terribly_ unfortunate that there isn't a most cosy hideaway just behind my bedroom, and all?" The sarcasm couldn't have dripped more. "Use your brain, Marlow!"  
  
So saying, Patrick shut his door, pulled out a hurricane lamp from a cupboard and lit it, picked up a plate of leftover currant cake to which he added a couple Mars Bars, shifted the end of his unmade bed aside, and slid aside a panel of the wall.  
  
"Here, you take the lamp and go first. I don't really need the light."  
  
Peter obeyed, but as soon as he passed Patrick, carefully stepping down two steep wooden steps, he turned to question him, "Won't it be a tad suss, the bed being moved?"  
  
Patrick chuckled. "Wait. You aren't the only one capable of basic engineering." He stepped down the two stairs to Peter's level, both bent over in the low passage. He reached up to his bed leg and pulled it back into place, then slid the panelling back, dropping them into darkness until their eyes adjusted to the lamp light. "The panel slides inwards, so we just push the bed when we're coming out again. There's no more steps now, just turn left at the end." Peter stopped before walking into a wall, went left, and came out into the priest's hole he'd been in once before. Clearly Patrick had recently made it into a secret den; a rug and a couple blankets covered the floor, a cardboard box held some full and several empty beer cans, books were piled up next to another lamp, a head torch, and a small portable radio.  
  
"I checked. Even at top volume you can't really make out any noise from here even right below in the kitchens, or in my room, nor in the other wing. Radio reception isn't great, mind you. It's County Sound with a bit of static, or nothing." Peter confirmed he was happy to give the local station a miss. "Hoping to get a Walkman for Christmas."

"Aren't we all? S'pose you could splash out on batteries for your ghetto blaster…"

Patrick's immediate vision was of himself carrying his prized double-cassette player over his shoulder round the Merrick estate, and he boggled, confused.

"Not for walking around with, clot! Bring it in here! Or, you know, just run an extension reel down."

"Thought of that. There's only one socket in my room, on the other side. The cord across the carpet might be a fraction obvious."

Peter shrugged. "S'pose you'd better wait for Christmas then, batteries being what they are. Money sinks. Can see why the Thuggery lot wanted the cash."

"Speaking of the Thuggery," something Patrick wanted to do so often, yet so rarely could, "I do still have that packet from the pigeon…"

" _So_ you do! Cocaine, they said in the news, not heroin, didn't they?"

"Mmm. Why?"

"Well, you go to that smart London school - _some_ of them must be the kinds of toffs who indulge? Or are you just not hanging out with the right crowds again?"

Patrick's stomach churned, then realised Peter was joking about his friends - he actually _had_ a few, sort of, thanks to Latin A-level being a small group of non-alpha males - and considered. "Well, there's Charlie - apt name, that, all set to be Duke of Something, some day. His lot boast about Ascot and Annabel's and all, and the odd bit of blow. Hm... his mate Crispin owes me a favour - English essay, me provided notes for - I should have a _chat,_ shouldn’t I, about the going rate for some of the _highest_ quality snow around, the rest all destroyed by request of the Top Lady, an' all, and suggest he gets himself a true bargain…"

"Ooh, get you! Got the lingo down. You could be the next Jukie, no probs!"

Peter was startled at the intensity of Patrick's reaction, as tears came to his eyes, he turned away, and shouted, "No! Fuck off! No!"

"Erm... something I said?", he muttered, stupidly; _obviously_ it was. Of course Jukie was dead, but why did Patrick care - though he'd _been_ there, in the car; spent the night together, the police said. "Um, Patrick? You and Jukie... did you... you _didn't_?"

"What, do anything? No!” Patrick managed to calm himself. “No, we didn't. The cops would never believe it, but basically we really did spend all night driving aimlessly - _him_ , wouldn't let me drive - and talking. All about his grandparents who raised him, and how he did get in with the Thuggery to get some quick extra cash." Patrick sighed heavily. "He'd been going to turn himself in, I think, until useless muggins here fell asleep - and then he panicked and started driving like a maniac and, _well_."

Jukie had stopped wanting to live. You couldn't really call it suicide, but... it was far too close to some thoughts Patrick himself had had over the years. Not _wanting_ to kill himself, just feeling death would have to be _easier_ , and wishing the decision would be taken out of his hands, and then seeing that actually happen to Jukie. It occurred to him that, since coming out to Peter and Nicola, he wasn't feeling that way any more. And wondered, again, if Jukie had been the same.  
  
"Poor sod. He wouldn't have been done for murder, anyway. All the gang and anyone else who'd ever met him were willing to swear that Kinky was a scary vicious bastard and started it, and anyone who grabbed a knife and stabbed him must’ve done it in self-defence. It _was_ Jukie, wasn't it?" ' _Not you_?', was the unsaid tag question.  
  
"Yes. Not me. Definitely him. Yes, it _was_ an accident - well, manslaughter, I suppose. Meant to hurt him and get him off me. But _then_ , when he was dying - Kinky - he wasn't scary _at all_ , y'know? He was terrified, just like a little animal, then weak, then just...gone." Like Jael, he managed to avoid saying.

"And you gave him the last rites and were there for him," Peter tried to be consoling. "It must have helped."

"A plenary indulgence," Patrick corrected. "Yes. Of course, that was when I believed it." He'd looked it up; a lay person performing a last act of communion was valid, if the person had prayed in their lifetime. No information on what happened if the person abandoned Catholicism later. He forced himself to believe that Kinky couldn't be retrospectively unabsolved, that a God, as opposed to a human Church, couldn't be so cruel, but then, what if Kinky _hadn't_ been contrite in those last moments? Where would his soul rest now?

"Ah, well. Who knows. I like to think you and Ann praying got us back at Christmas."  
"I _don't_ like to think of it, at all."  
"Yeah. Me too, actually. Such an arrogant _fool_ of me." Peter jabbed his thumb into his thigh, disgustedly.  
" _Would_ you have ditched Dartmouth, if it hadn't been for that trip?"  
"Hmm. Don't know. I _hope_ so, but more like I'd have been too much the coward until they ditched _me_. Ah well, it’s all done and I'm out now! Cake?"  
  
It was crumbly, but they munched it all, picked crumbs off each other's necks, and that made a good excuse to get their shirts off, and, what with it being warm and a bit muggy in the priest's hole despite the rainstorm, the rest of their clothing. The Ancient Greeks had a point when it came to nudity and relaxation, they agreed.  
  
After elevenses, Peter had suggested an experiment, what with Patrick having Biology O-level and all, and they had successfully and happily confirmed the location of Peter's prostate by digital examination. It occurred to Peter that maybe, one day, a woman might try that for him? His main problem with girls was finding ones who weren't too unnervingly reminiscent of one or another of his sisters, or if they passed that test, were just too dim for the bosom to compensate, like Wendy Reynolds. Maybe he should look for an older woman? Or just totally different looks? The photos showing filming of A View to a Kill with Grace Jones had wank potential…

  
Patrick, meanwhile, had looked down at Peter's prone body beneath him, so shamelessly writhing on the end of his finger, sadly refusing anything else, and tried to imprint the image into his brain. Somehow, he knew this would be their last day together. They had girls at Colebridge; Peter wouldn't have to slum it any more. Peter's easy charm and good looks would have girls swarming over him, whether he liked them all or not, and Peter could experiment further throughout his A-levels. Patrick vowed to make the most of today.  
  
As if in answer to a silent prayer, Peter managed to prop himself up on an elbow and grin. "Nice one, Merrick. Give me a few minutes and I'll fuck your brains out too."

"Ah, you concede I _do_ have brains!" Patrick reached over for the box of condoms and the KY. He pulled out an empty wrapper and the folded-paper instruction leaflet. "Oi, Peter, did you nick half the rubbers after last week?"

"No. Well, only a couple. Why?"

"'Cos there's none bloody left, that's why! And I know _I've_ only used three since, and it was five or six in the barn, so if you nicked the others then _you_ can damn well buy some more!"

Peter was set to argue, but given the couple he'd re-stocked his wallet with had probably been three, and remembering that maybe only three had been used in earnest but they'd both put their fingers through one or two, oh… _arse_ , that made twelve. Nothing for it. "Well, the rain's letting up - how about a bracing ride to Colebridge?"

"I'll come with you, but you are paying and buying the things, you tight bastard."

Peter had the rest of his holiday money on him, and no real plans for it beyond beer, so this left him unruffled. "Let's go."

They dressed hurriedly, and Peter was relieved to see the bed did slide out of the way as readily as Patrick had promised - he wasn't claustrophobic like Ginty was after becoming trapped in the cupboard during that bomb scare, but the idea of being trapped in a secure 16th-century cell was too vivid for his liking. Not to mention the only alternative exit would have involved the roof. He shuddered.


	2. Chapter 2

Both on own bicycles this time, heads down against the rain, they pedalled briskly to Colebridge. Within fifteen minutes they reached the chemist. They noticed, in dismay, the same ancient pharmacist guarding the counter. "Best you go. Here's a fiver." Peter put a crumpled note into Patrick’s hand.

"What? _Your_ turn."

"We're here together. _Again._ If I buy them, he'll think there's a connection, get it? _You_ buy them again, and it's just that Merrick boy again." Patrick was unconvinced. "So I'll get the beers in and see you in a mo."

Sighing, Patrick opened the door with the ominous jangling bell.

  
"A pack of Durex, please," he said pleasantly, head up, being Claudie.

The pharmacist stared. "Is this a game? Are you larking about with the lads, blowing up prophylactics like balloons, for kicks and giggles? Because I'm not having that. I’m not. Not least, we're all out of Durex now until next delivery. So, if you want a three-pack of Mates, you need to promise me they aren't for joking about with." He stared over his wire-rims down at Patrick.

Patrick was frozen to the spot in embarrassment.

"Because _someone_ , Mr Merrick, bought the last Durex. A dozen of them. And japes with condoms - _any_ improper use - are not funny."

"I...I... did _not_ use any… c-condoms for improper purposes!" Patrick managed to stammer out. "I promise!" Slowly realising what this implied, he felt himself blushing beet-red. The white-haired chemist clearly had come to the same conclusion and was having a severe coughing fit as he bent down under the counter, and passed him some Mates without making further eye contact.

"Your change, sir. Good day."

Patrick took the small box and put it in his pocket. "Thank you."  
  


He managed to nonchalantly look at some shampoo and toilet bags on his way out, facing away from the counter, but as soon as he reached the door he leapt outside as fast as he could, the bell jangling evilly behind him. He caught up with Peter, sheltering from the drizzle at the bus shelter.

"Woah! How red are you?" Peter exclaimed. Patrick, blushing again, repeated their conversation.

"At least he couldn't have seen you at all."

"So you've got a reputation as the town bike. Could be worse," Peter grinned. "Oh, chill out - you could be selling them on - or just sharing with your friends, which is sort of true, isn't it? Come on, let's get back before the next heavy rain comes."

They didn't quite miss the storm, which, on the plus side, gave them both a plausible excuse for disrobing.   
  
"Can I draw you, properly, this time? Like, something I could put in a portfolio? Won't take long, just a sketch, 10, 15 minutes?"

"You want me... like this?" He gestured down his torso and past his groin.

"Well, life drawing is life drawing... but _was_ thinking of hiding the cock. Hmm... back to me? Yes, on your side, good, now look back over at me? Lift your top leg, bend it, hold yourself up? That's great - don't worry, I can assure you there's not even a glimpse of cock or squishy bits in this! OK. You can close your eyes, if you want, till I start doing your face." Peter hummed, pastels rubbing on paper, and Patrick did as suggested and closed his eyes. He could still see eyes gazing at him attentively, all the eyes from his old school wanting him, and his cock twitched. He hoped Peter would have the decency to ignore it.

"Open your eyes? Look at me." Patrick opened his eyes, surprised and guilty. "Oh, that's so _you_ , that expression! Yes, and the mouth, just about to speak. Stay still. Yeah, shut up. Just going to colour in a bit now, but you're mostly brown... _touch_ of pink on the lips... hmm..." Peter went back to his brown shades, added some more colour, rubbed at a spot. "Not bad, for a quick job. Oh, you can get up now."  
Patrick stretched his left leg and sat up. He leaned over to see the drawing and was impressed, both at how well it resembled himself - a bit better than he was in reality, he thought, scars looking more heroic than bumpy and prone to blistering still, ribs not as prominent, muscle possibly more so, though looking down at his legs, he _had_ built up a bit from the cycling he did - and how well Peter had composed a presentable version of a nude, reminiscent of Greek statues and certainly not of _anything_ sexual. "That's… really good!"

"Thanks. Would you be OK if it went in an art portfolio?"

"Thought you weren't doing Art A-level?"

"Not. But that means I need evidence of artistic talent if I want to do Architecture, and it wouldn't hurt for Engineering. They say they want to see other subjects as well as buildings. Subject: male life study."

"Oh, fine by me. Suppose it's _plausible_ , who else do you know round here who isn't family, and any girl would take your suggestion of getting kit off quite the wrong way… or the right way…"

"Bit much for a first date, anyway."

"Yeah." Patrick wondered if he'd ever have a first date, ringing a doorbell, a nice dinner in a restaurant, a kiss on a doorstep…

"You like being looked at." Patrick didn't deny it. "I saw your cock get hard. Want to get fucked again?"

Patrick didn't answer. The jumping of his cock did it for him. Peter went to get the new condoms out, and found this one quite different - it unrolled down his cock with no stretching needed. So, hopefully, no putting thumbs through it. He decided if Patrick could cope without wasting a rubber on his fingers, so could he - nails were short - some jelly - time to stretch this hole waiting for him. He looked at his fingers, curled two experientially. "Lie down. Stick your arse on this pillow." When Patrick looked at him quizzically, he continued, "Ginty's magazines all seem to recommend a pillow to get a good angle, worth trying..." Patrick shuffled over on his back, shoved the cushion under himself, and could feel how much more accessible his genitals were - he could practically feel a breeze up his arsehole. It was - _exhilarating_. And Peter was making his fingers sticky and reaching for him - Patrick had to start mentally reciting Kings of England to avoid coming as soon as Peter's finger penetrated him. This was the life!

  
Peter had clearly learnt from the last two practical lessons, squeezing in another finger, crooking them, playing with himself with the other hand. Patrick relaxed, nodded. " _Do it_."

And Peter, with more confidence, slid forward - a torpedo gliding into its casing - then abruptly stopping and _thunk_ ing home - all the way in. He couldn't have felt more welcome. Patrick held his knees up and rocked gently, breathing out with increasing confidence, moaning, spellbound. The movement woke Peter up and he felt the need to push back, thrusting harder as Patrick pushed more vigorously back at him. ' _Glorious_ ,' Patrick thought.

There were shuddering, shouting climaxes. A resounding success, coloured by both knowing at least one of them wished it had been someone else. And probably wouldn't happen again - it would never be the same. But, Peter decided, worth it, anyway. Really, _quite_ a good way to pass the time. He extracted himself and dumped the rubber in a beer can which he squashed firmly flat.

"Thank you," said Patrick unexpectedly.

"What for?"

Patrick shrugged. "A damn good fuck? Persistence in the face of adversity? Not running away when your mate turns out to be gay and wants you?” He remembered his hosting responsibilities. “Beer? Fancy a cigarette? Got some, somewhere."  
Peter declined, and Patrick explained, "I don't, much, but Claudie did and kept offering, and people _will_ offer, so, thought I'd better have some of my own; so's not to look like cadging all the time."

Peter finished the can and lay back to stretch, hands behind his head. "You're going to have an interesting confession this Sunday. Or… _are_ you? Hang on, you'll be going back to school on Sunday? Save you from the decision?"

Patrick nodded slowly. "Yeah. Well yes, pushing off back to Hampstead early on Sunday might be an idea. Also, _not_ doing confession here. You remember the pharmacist? He comes here."

Peter initially misconstrued the meaning of the word 'comes' and coughed in horror, then realised Patrick meant he came to Meriot Chase for classical Mass. Which was _quite_ bad enough.

"Exactly. What I confess to in Mass or privately, myself... I'm still working on that. What for, who to… _do_ I repent for anything anyway?"

"Hm. Big questions. _Heavy, man_. It sounds so easy, confess, say some Hail Marys, all conscience wiped clean until next week, but I suppose you still have that guilty feeling - are you _really_ contrite and thus are you really...what’s the word? Absolved?"

"Well, yes. Knowing you are human and _will_ sin again is different from _planning_ to sin again." Peter was impressed at the word 'sin' rolling so naturally off Patrick's tongue; realised the implications.

"You're planning to... sin again?"

Patrick laughed ruefully. He counted on his fingers. "Masturbation, lustful and covetous thoughts, indecent behaviour, fornication, buggery... _hell_ yes. Add swearing, why don't you."

" _Ouch_. And being a noble Boy Scout doing good turns every day doesn't negate any of that?"

"Who knows? I'd guess the odd wank gets overlooked or Heaven must be pretty empty – that, or everyone repents on their deathbed - but 'homosexuality'?" - he mimicked Mary Whitehouse's pursed lips - "Doesn't look like it. Apparently this Pope is particularly reactionary, but there's a limit to what another could do, what with each one being infallible and all." He glanced sideways at Peter. "So, you, then. No fear of hellfire or damnation?"

Peter shook his head. "Never occurred to me that any of the Bible was true" _\- any more than fairy stories,_ he omitted tactfully. "All replaced by good old Science. Except in the Navy, where worshipping the Queen - and Queen Maggie - is _way_ more important than God. _Horrendous_ groupthink across the Service.” One reason why Foley had been such a refreshing tutor. “God forbid anyone consider voting Labour - you might as well admit you're selling secrets to the Soviets!" Was that what had motivated Foley? Mutton and mint sauce?

Patrick was silent, thoughtful. He'd get to vote at the next election. Would he consider voting for someone other than his father? "Not a fan of Maggie and Her Maj?"

Peter shrugged. "Not really bothered - Queenie seems like a nice old duck, really don't know much about politics other than that Scargill chap sounds like a prat, but it's not them, it's the _worship_ of them I can't stand."

“So you feel guilty about that too? You really should have been Catholic, you know – us Catholics may get guilt piled on us, but at least confession lets you get rid of it sometimes.”

"Yeah? OK, theologian - what do I need to confess and how can I atone for any of it?"

"What do you need to confess, young Marlow?" Patrick steepled his hands and affected the voice of an elderly Irish priest. "Where to even start, my lad? Where to _even_ start? Only in the last week, why, there's impure thoughts and deeds, masturbation and buggery _and_ homosexual activity – fellatio - um," - he gave up on the accent - "possibly 'looking at someone to whom you are not married with lust in your heart', ‘thinking lustful thoughts’ - not about me, goop, someone else - drunkenness, abetting theft, vandalism, lying - about your age if nothing else, lying by omission, um, the usual ones are laziness, not bothering to pray, impatience... Are you feeling like a right worm yet? Because you should." Back to the wheezing elderly voice. "Come here, boy, and beg for absolution. You tell me your sins."   
  
He'd noticed, occasionally, how suggestible Peter was, but it wasn't a conscious decision to get Peter to spit out what was bothering him - the words had seemed to come automatically, heretical as they were. He beckoned and Peter, still naked, sat down on Patrick's lap. " _Good_. You can't see my face. Now, if you are truly seeking after forgiveness, tell me your sins.” He remembered the C of E word. “’ _Trespasses’_ , if you like. Start with the biggest one, they always say."

Patrick, reaching round to stroke Peter's soft inner thigh, vaguely expected to hear regrets about their having had sex, or possibly something to do with Foley the traitor or the Kommandant Peter had killed. He was surprised, therefore, to hear Peter's admission, very quiet but clear:  
"I shot Jael."


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick needed all his self-control not to punch Peter as he hissed back into his ear,

"Yes. You did. You _bastard_."

"My sin was impatience. Thoughtlessness. Is that one?"

"Reckless behaviour, I'm sure." Patrick knew that; his accident on the cliffs had involved it.

"Reckless. Yes. Oh Patrick, I'm so _sorry_!" That terrible day; freezing on the cliffs, he should have known that, lighthouse and diving-boards notwithstanding, he still found cliffs terrifying, still wasn’t paying proper attention when shooting rabbits, hadn’t looked…

Patrick was silent, stroking Peter's back, his thighs. He wondered what Peter hoped to get out of this. He didn't have it in himself to not to hate Peter for killing that noble bird.

"Patrick?"

The silence continued.

Finally, Patrick said, "I'm not a priest. I can't forgive."  
  


If he hadn't had Peter on his bare lap, he'd have missed Peter's body clenching, and been misled by the chirpy tone with which Peter replied flippantly, "Just as well. Naked boy on your lap? Thought they tried throwing out the dodgy priests? Though, didn't you say, there were a couple left at your old place, got their jollies from corporal punishment?"

Patrick ran his hand down Peter's arm, stroking, fondling, an abuse of power if he'd had any, but the alternative was throwing Peter off him in disgust. "True. Definitely chaps getting off on hurting, causing pain. I did wonder if it was a requirement for becoming a prefect, actually." He blamed it on curiosity, later, but at the time wondered if it was a demon of blasphemy that triggered him to shove Peter roughly - sideways, so his shoulders landed to Patrick's left, enabling him to grab Peter's leg and pull that to his right, and Patrick leant forward, left elbow in Peter's back, as he arranged his friend's legs so as to have Peter lying across his lap, bare bottom upmost, cock held between Patrick's legs. Peter was stunned silent, but then stayed quiet, equally curious about what Patrick would do next.  
  
Patrick gripped one of Peter's buttocks firmly in one hand. "Nice." He started to caress Peter's arse, rubbing with one hand, the other, both. It blushed slightly red, warm, and Patrick patted it, hard, to watch it redden again. And again, a bit harder. He'd seen those magazine covers and video boxes with someone getting spanked, and he was beginning to see why - Peter's cock was hard down between his thighs, it was fun fondling Peter's curved yet firm bottom and seeing him squirm as it got redder, and, _was_ that heavy breathing of Peter’s him getting aroused? From _this_?  
  
Patrick spanked harder, learning to force his palm down to avoid stinging himself on a rebound, fascinated, and produced a flurry of sharp slaps before pausing for a rest, stroking up Peter's spine with a finger of his left hand. Peter was panting out some words he couldn't make out.

"Wozzat? "

Peter, speaking as clearly as if he were at table with a teacher, replied, "Forgive me?"  
  


Patrick felt icy fury. Mixing up whatever filthy thing they were doing right now, with a sacrament of confession, it was sacrilege and presumption, it wasn't Peter's _right_ to take the piss out of confession and Catholicism, no matter what Patrick might say or think about it, and he himself _wasn't_ a priest, which was just as well as he couldn't forgive Peter, he _couldn't._ He thumped with a fist to emphasise the point to himself, which was on Peter's red backside, and Peter moaned. It sounded almost like "yes!" and that broke Patrick's control - he _wasn't_ having Peter's sick joke, it _wasn't_ something he could forgive, Jael, Jael…

Patrick punched his fist into Peter’s arse a few more times, leant over Peter, rested his forearm across Peter's back to hold him in place, and started to lay into Peter's proud bottom as hard as he could, anger pushing him to slap and punch and slap more, on and on, idly counting in the back of his mind, losing count around fifty, not caring, knowing the smug, stupid, _Marlowish_ idiot deserved it all and more; would _anything_ get through to him and make Peter more careful in future, he could have _killed_ someone in the Shippen, he hadn't even _learnt_ from shooting Jael about how easily guns killed and checked the barrel of that pistol, he was a murderer already - what the _fuck_ had he been doing in the Navy, this stupid, _stupid_ arrogant boy, poor, _poor_ Jael...  
  
The tear in his eye distracted Patrick from what he was doing, and his exhausted hand made him stop, pause, and recoil as he saw Peter's arse blood-red, blackish bruises staining it, red marks on Peter's thighs where he'd lashed out at a fresh target, the blanket rucked up from where Peter had kicked his legs over it. Peter's back and hair were wet with sweat and his face wet also, from a mixture of tears and snot. Patrick flexed his hand - it _burned_ \- and felt disgusted with himself. He opened his legs with a squelch so Peter could roll away, run away, escape him, and felt the sticky mess of Peter's semen all over his thighs. Patrick’s self-hatred mingled with shock, and the sudden silence was broken by Peter managing a remarkably normal voice, rolling onto his side so he could see Patrick, nodding companionably and saying, "Feel a bit better?"  
  
Patrick knew he was doing the open mouth with no words, just like his nightmares and fears before any conversation, but now that paled as a fear compared to this monster he'd become. Peter was sounding - _thankful?_ He reached out to Peter's battered bottom, horrified by what he had wrought, running his hand over a raised ridge where his nail must have scratched already-tender skin. Peter's gasp, arching his back and purring in pure pleasure, confused him completely.

"Oh _god!_ Don't stop that. _Mmmmm_..." Patrick did stop, startled, but then tentatively did nervously brush the sore area again, causing a similar reaction, and he carried on with more confidence. Peter was making a contented mumbling noise. Patrick's moral compass needle was spinning round in stormy waters, a hurricane? Who knew, but he focused on Peter's cock as a barometer of whether he was doing good or not. Things were set _most_ fair. Peter's skin had become sensitive and he appeared to be reacting to every touch as if it were the end of his cock, moaning and gasping, _definitely_ happily.

The rug suddenly got much stickier.

It was minutes before he lifted his head to tell Patrick, "I forgive you." After a pause, perhaps because Patrick looked so shocked - _disgusted_ _with himself?_ _Ashamed of losing control?_ \- Peter added, "Thanks. That was _brilliant_."  
  
Perhaps in relief, Patrick realised he did actually feel better after... letting out his feelings? Catharsis? Did some people find this kind of thing therapeutic then, pleasurable, even? On the giving _and_ taking ends, maybe? He remembered the video they'd half-watched in the bookshop basement, with his doppelgänger in chains, and realised whatever he'd done, uncontrolled and ill-advised as it had been, couldn't be so unusual nor necessarily be so torturous as he'd thought - clearly, they'd hit on (ha!) what really got Peter going. He hoped someone out there would be able to oblige Peter in future.

"You’re welcome. I _think_ I've forgiven myself."

"Good. Ditch that bloody Catholic guilt."

Patrick chuckled. "You know, I just might. Now, I'd better go run a bath if we both want to be done before my dear ma returns!"

Later, as they let the water running away from them, reasoning it would waste less water to bathe together, Patrick said shyly, "Pete? I might just about forgive you, too."

Peter exhaled. “So. The Cure. Genius, or over-rated?”


	4. Chapter 4

It had become a weekly tradition since they had both gone back to school; putting a tape in a small Jiffy bag, scribbling a note, and sending it to Peter, in anticipation of him doing the same. Not the effort of a carefully-crafted mix tape of course, but a copy of some album, possibly with a couple extra songs added at the end, off another tape or the radio. He’d received Purple Rain the week before, in exchange for the good bits of Now 4 with some of the top 10 added, which oddly included Pie Jesu by Sarah Brightman – he loved it, but it wasn’t exactly pop or rock. He wondered what Peter would have made of it, and found himself drumming the Ghostbusters tune on the table. Today, Patrick was considering what to say to accompany Foreigner’s Agent Provocateur plus a bit of Alison Moyet, and settled for “Thought you might like Moyet’s Invisible. I’ll be down for half-term on the 25th – 31st. See you? PM.”

Three days later he received a packet with familiar scrawl, out of which fell a tape labelled “Bon Jovi – 7800º Fahrenheit” and a note on exercise-book paper:

“This lot are going to be at Donington in August – bloody Americans + their non-metric measures. Won’t be at home this ½ – Selby’s invited me to his, + hoping to spend time with his sister too. Apparently she’s ‘grown up a lot’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Soz. PM.”

Patrick listened, concluded sadly that he wasn’t in Peter’s “Secret Dreams”, and, browsing the _Standard_ distractedly _,_ decided that one good thing about the newspapers getting all hysterical about gay pubs was that he now knew where they were. He planned to visit the Vauxhall Tavern soon as he’d left school, what with the uniform being a bit of an under-age giveaway.

He saw Nicola and Rowan a lot over the summer, but Peter was almost never there, having hit it off with a friend of Selby’s sister, it turned out. Short, dark and fierce, apparently. Patrick cursed her and vowed to keep to celibacy at least until Christmas, focusing on his A-level work. 16th century history was fascinating and a passion he could share with Nicola, and eventually it pipped Classics for his university choice. And that fen-land place – no family history involved - did seem appealing. If he could get the grades.

He did, by some miracle and a flukey S-level; he considered aiming for a good Catholic life in thanks, but by the end of Freshers’ Week was firmly in the clutches of the LesGay Society, which happened to have a substantial overlap with the CathSoc cohort. Much fun was had, in between the intense supervisions and many hours in the library, partly thanks to his new social life being conducted with increasingly-less-furtive glances and no need to speak until after he knew someone enough that he didn’t need to fear when finally trying to summon words. The Marlow family – _neighbours of my parents, used to live in my dad’s London place_ \- barely merited a thought. Until final year when he picked up a new compilation. He dismissed it as mere pre-exam stress bringing on unpleasant emotions, as he found that for some inexplicable reason, Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” triggered remarkably intense memories of Peter.  
  



End file.
